‘Did you tell all this to the police?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Why?’
‘They didn’t ask. I gave them some names and times. As I say, I’ve been frank with you, because…’
‘You’re desperate to get your hands on Barnes Todd’s paintings.’
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’
‘Did you hear about the break-in at Barnes’ house?’
‘No. The paintings?’
‘Nothing lost.’ His surprise and relief seemed genuine, but then, maybe Mr Willowsmith had done some acting. I thanked him for his time and left the room. I waited outside with my ear to the door but he didn’t pound the desk or grab the telephone. Maybe he counted his rings or felt his diamond with his tongue. Nasty sights, both. I walked out past Judith, who was looking at her catalogue again.
‘Sorry I barged in like that,’ I said. ‘I was putting on my tough act.’
She smiled warily. ‘That’s okay. I bet it didn’t worry him.’
‘You’re right. Tell me, did you know Barnes Todd?’
‘Mm, lovely man. I like his wife, too.’
‘Were you at the party?’
‘Yes. I was serving drinks and things.’
‘Willowsmith tells me there was an argument. Did you see it?’
‘Couldn’t miss it. It was terrible. They were circling Mr Todd like sharks.’
I thanked her and left the gallery. So much for the softies of the art world. So much for starting at the easy end.
8
One of the many things you can do in Paddington is eat well. Lately I’d tended to eat when I was hungry, which wasn’t necessarily at any particular hour or even three times a day. I bought a perfect apple and walked along Oxford Street eating it, looking at the fast-moving young and the slow-moving old and feeling somewhere in the middle. The shops seemed to be full of things that were more than a hundred years old or that had only been invented a week ago. I was on a promise to myself not to drink before six at least three times a week. Yesterday I’d buckled under at 10 a.m., today I was made of sterner stuff. I bought a takeaway coffee and put it in the slot under the orange phone where the directory was supposed to go.
Michael Hickie answered his own phone.
‘You haven’t had to let Jenny go, have you?’ I said.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Hardy. I was joking.’
I could hear the relief in his voice over the traffic noise. ‘No, no. Her lunch break. Look, I want to thank you for talking to Felicia. She called me this morning and she was very reasonable about everything. She’s given me the go-ahead to conclude a few pressing shipping and storage contracts, and we’re going to have a meeting about the business as a whole. She’s okaying your fee, by the way.’
‘Good. You sound a bit strained.’
‘One of these contracts of Barnes’ is a bitch. I thought you might be someone from the opposition having a go at me.’
‘That rugged?’
‘Packing and storing and development? You bet they’re rugged. And Barnes was a pretty vigorous operator.’
‘That’s what I’m ringing about. Is there anyone out at the Botany address who could tell me something about the business? I mean about competitors, dirty tricks, hands-on stuff?’
Peter Corris
CH12 — O'Fear
‘There is. I was talking to him an hour ago after I spoke to Felicia. Bob Mulholland. He’s your man, but he’ll be busy now things are moving again.’
‘Could you give him a ring and tell him I’m coming over? I want to get cracking.’
Hickie said he would. I rang off and drank the cool coffee. Paddington had a self-conscious, self-indulgent look. It was mark-up land, commission country, franchiseville. I went to the Autobank, drew out a few judicious dollars for petrol and possible palm-greasing, got in the car and headed for Botany.
Barnes Enterprises was located off Botany Road, away from the water, a kilometre or so from the Caltex terminal. From a rise I could see the refinery structures in the distance-tall, spidery towers like something out of The War of the Worlds. Factories and houses jostled together in the streets. Some of the houses were solid and well maintained, but many looked apologetic about their existence. Their peeling paint and rusty metal said they were sorry to be there. I parked among trucks and utes and vans. Sydney these days seems to be filling up with leisure vehicles; VWs with their roofs cut off, four-wheel drives and convertibles, but here were only working wheels. A plane roared off the runway to the west, and the car shook as it passed over, gaining height. It left a dirty smudge in the clear blue sky and the noise stayed in my ears long after the plane became a speck.
I got out and almost had to fight for breath. I had a. 45 automatic under the dashboard, a camera and miniature tape recorder among my professional equipment-what I really needed was a respirator. The dust in the air was clinging to the oily sludge and the slight breeze was stirring it all around like a chemical soup. And it was hot. Sweat broke out on my face; I wiped it off with my hand, which then felt greasy. I left my jacket in the car and walked between two prime movers and across a rutted piece of road to a wide double gate, standing open, in a high cyclone fence. It took massive posts and hinges to hold the gates, one of which had a metal plate attached to it, on which BARNES ENTERPRISES was written in fading red paint. Rust had pitted the metal and flaked off the paint so that the words were hard to read. The fence enclosed a couple of acres of cement, dirt and scruffy grass. Along one perimeter was a large shed with a serrated roof; nearby were a couple of structures like aircraft hangars as well as smaller sheds and prefabs, all old. But one brick and glass structure was post-World War II. A few vehicles were in evidence- cars, vans, a loaded semi-trailer. There were a couple of sea cargo containers and several high stacks of wooden crates.
I had to jump aside to avoid a truck that raced past me through the gates. The driver jammed on the brakes and the truck threw up water and mud as it skidded through some puddles and stopped near the brick building. Three men wearing grey overalls jumped from the truck. One threw a brick through the window of a van, another began splashing something liquid from a can over the loaded semi-trailer. The first man went to work on truck tyres with a knife and the third ran a cable from the back of the truck towards a stack of crates.
I shouted and ran towards them. Two people came from the building, a man and a woman. The man threw himself at the one with the can and the woman ran in the direction of the nearest shed. When I got there, the man from the building had flattened the petrol splasher, but one of the others had king hit him from behind. He sagged to his knees and his attacker got set to hit him again. He pulled the punch when he saw me and reached into his back pocket. I ducked under his swing and hit him very low with a wild right. The breath rushed from him and I heard metal hit the cement. I kicked him between the legs and he went down. The man with the knife was moving towards me, but I had the feeling he was happier slashing tyres. I grabbed the Stillson wrench the guy I’d put down had dropped and let him come. He stopped and the other two struggled up.
The woman had enlisted two men from the sheds. They were running towards us.
‘Fuckin’ hell,’ one of the attackers said. ‘I’m off!’
He ran for the truck and the other two went with him. I moved to follow them but the guy who had thrown the best punch of the fight was on his feet now. ‘Let the buggers go,’ he said.
They were twenty feet away and in the truck. They had left the motor running. Stop them and we’re talking to the police, I thought. I threw the Stillson and it shattered the passenger side window as the truck roared off, spraying mud, the cable whipping along behind it.
The reinforcements reached us and one of the men sniffed loudly. ‘Shit, that’s petrol.’
‘Are you all right, Bob?’ the woman said.